


The Boundless Country

by slattern



Series: The Seeker Who Sets Out Upon the Way [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Author is working something out, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has an Equanimity Kink (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Dirty Talk, Gay Sex, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Healing Sex, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Metaphysical Sex, Mutual Masturbation, Ocean Voyages, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sad Wank, Sharing a Bed, Switching, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Travel, Victorian, gay history, old timey lubricant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:41:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21826861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slattern/pseuds/slattern
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley travel together to New York City by ocean liner and Crowley wants Aziraphale to tell him about the men he’s known in the last thirty years.*****It's two in the morning  by the small brass clock in its leather stand on the nightstand. Aziraphale is reading Jane Eyre. It's been three days since they boarded the RMS Teutonic at Liverpool. It was an unpleasant surprise for Aziraphale to find his accommodations had been downgraded to second class. Either an innocent mistake by his booking agent in London or a pompous reprimand from Upstairs, reminding him to ride an ass like Wolsey (and Jesus too he supposed).
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Seeker Who Sets Out Upon the Way [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571059
Comments: 57
Kudos: 141





	The Boundless Country

**Author's Note:**

> ETA: [click to see](https://tyrograph.tumblr.com/post/190957709113/linework-of-an-illustration-im-working-on-based) [tyrograph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyrograph/pseuds/Tyrograph)'s gorgeous, erotic WIP artwork for this story on Tumblr!  
> Well, so looks like a third story has manifested. I don't know what's happening but I'm going with it. Thank you to everyone who's left kudos and commented on the previous works in this series, it is seriously awesome to hear that people enjoy a creation of mine!
> 
> It might be hard to understand this story without reading at least the previous one, Like A Broken Gong. This story has some of the same content warnings for power differential sex and age differences.
> 
> Title is from the Buddha in the Dhammapada: “You are to travel far away. What will you take with you? You are the lamp to lighten the way... When your light shines without impurity of desire, you will come into the boundless country.”

It's two in the morning by the small brass clock in its leather stand on the nightstand. Aziraphale is reading Jane Eyre. It's been three days since they boarded the RMS _Teutonic_ at Liverpool. It was an unpleasant surprise for Aziraphale to find his accommodations had been downgraded to second class. Either an innocent mistake by his booking agent in London or a pompous reprimand from Upstairs, reminding him to ride an ass like Wolsey (and Jesus too he supposed).

So he’s reading in his small but serviceable cabin. He's not seen Crowley. He feels shy to seek him out. He hasn't usually been the one to bring them together, at least not recently, especially since the Bastille, but even before. It's as if Aziraphale has a desire for Crowley's company, and the demon appears. Until he didn't, until he wouldn't wake, no matter how much the angel might desire it.

After decades without him, their brief encounter at the train station had been a shock. Only after Crowley had gone from the platform, vanished as remarkably quickly as he'd appeared, had Aziraphale's tunnel vision cleared and his heart started again. Crowley’s woken up. He'd come to him. And they would go to America, if not together, then alongside each other.

Three days have gone by of the eight it will take them to reach New York. Aziraphale has sampled the entertainment offerings of the ship, chatted with a few of his fellow passengers in second class. A widower on his way to join a distant cousin's lawfirm in Philadelphia catches his eye while they’re both exploring the ship’s library on the promenade deck. Aziraphale's not inclined to take a human lover for a while, not now. But the man is good company and the angel can touch his heart a bit by the second time they have dinner together in the noisy dining saloon.

But now it's the middle of a moonless night in the North Atlantic, in a small cabin with no windows. A warm electric bulb lights the room, enough for Aziraphale to read Brontë, slightly savagely.

There's a staccato rap on the door, which immediately opens. Crowley is inside the room, closing the door behind him with a metallic _thunk_. He's holding a bottle of that peaty whisky he likes so much. His other hand appears and it's holding a bottle of sherry, which he holds out to Aziraphale to take.

The room is so small that Crowley is across it in a stride and a half. He sits on the end of the bed at Aziraphale’s feet, and doesn’t look at him. He’s nattily dressed, of course, in men’s clothes, and when he bends onto the bed Aziraphale can see the bulge of his Effort against the fine fabric of his tailored pants. Crowley unlaces his cloth and leather boots and pulls them off, before shimmying up the side of the narrow bed, coming to rest propped up against the bedstead next to Aziraphale. He pops the cork out of the whisky bottle and takes a long pull, his eyes coming up to meet the angel’s as he swallows.

“So?” Crowley tilts his head disarmingly at the angel. It’s as though no time has passed, as though the words in the park that day were never exchanged. “What have you been up to?”

Aziraphale tells Crowley about the last few decades, miracles he's most proud of, books he's gotten to know. He looks at his friend’s face as they talk, as often as he dares. More often than before. He can feel the smallest of gilded sparks in his chest, a hum, an echo of the golden geyser whose absence he’s been ‘managing’ for thirty years.

"And friends? You made some friends I think didn't you?" The demon's voice has changed, the pitch dropping slightly. Aziraphale sips his sherry and shifts himself a little higher against the wall. He swallows. Crowley is not touching him at all, but he can feel every inch of the demon where he's laying alongside him, their bodies perfectly parallel.

"I did. Yes. Good friends." He's not ashamed, he reminds himself. Not at all. In fact he's proud of the love he's shared, the healing he's been permitted to do. But his face has reddened nonetheless. He feels certain Crowley knows the effect he's having.

"I'd like you to tell me about them. Tell me about the first one."

"My dear boy, really? I was just, I just, did what comes naturally, you know. What can you care to know?" Aziraphale's mouth is dry and he takes another sip of his sherry.

"I care to know it all. I'm a very curious creature." His self-deprecation is mismatched with the thick intensity of his tone. Their eyes meet as they turn their heads toward each other against the cabin wall.

"Well." Aziraphale licks his lips, has another sip of sherry rather desperately, and puts the glass down on the night table. He clasps his hands together at his waist, uncrossing and recrossing his legs where they stretched out along the small bed, alongside Crowley's long thin ones, which reach almost over the edge of the mattress. "There wasn't really a first one, there were two. A long-time couple who I was introduced to through the, the _literary_ world."

"Thought there must be books at the bottom of this," Crowley interjects wryly.

"Yes, well." Aziraphale declines to be baited, although it would put off the telling, so he's not sure why. "They were lovely, just full of love. They thought I was like them, well and I suppose I am in some sense. They invited me into their bedroom, and then into," the angel has to clear his throat, as too many emotions and memories crowd their way forward at once. "Into their bed."

Crowley says nothing. He's so silent Aziraphale can't hear him breathing. He wants to turn and look at his friend but he can't bring himself to, his cheeks flushed uncomfortably as he tries to breathe in even, measured beats.

He wants to tell Crowley about the healing, how he realized that sex was the perfect vehicle for his power, for his angelic grace to enter the humans, to unwind their responses, to heal their twisted pathways and open their hearts. But he feels suddenly ashamed. That Crowley will see through him, see his feeble attempts to balance the scales, to rationalize his selfish, sinful seeking of pleasure, as he took what he wanted from the men he touched, took his pleasure in their bodies and took their love and adoration into his ancient, lonely, heart.

Crowley snaps his finger with a small motion, and the cabin is utterly dark, just a faint glow of the hallway light through the base of the door.

"Turn over." Crowley's voice is so rough it's barely audible. He clears his throat and repeats, more firmly, "Turn over." 

Aziraphale does it. He can't believe it, he doesn't know what is happening to him. The punishment of Crowley's absence, his denial of himself to Aziraphale, has left the angel passive and obedient, afraid to assert anything into this fragile moment. Aziraphale can't remember if he's ever obeyed an order like that in bed. He feels as though he's at the top of a very tall tower, looking over the edge, leaning on the guard rail, not quite at the tipping point, but pressing up against it, the wind filling all his senses, the drop ever present but not assured. He turns over.

The bed sinks and shifts as Aziraphale turns, sliding down the bed so he's laying on his side. He can feel Crowley turning, stretching out behind him, his head on the same pillow, not touching but so close he can feel Crowley's breath on his hair. 

"Tell me what you did." Crowley's voice is soft in the thick darkness. The vibration of the giant steamship can be felt through the bed, underneath the trembling Aziraphale feels in his body as he renders his confession.

"I watched. The first time. I have my Effort, I leave it on these days, simplest, you know, so I was willing to learn, that is to say, hands on." He's talking fast, nervous, letting the words out before he can think too much about what he's doing, what they're doing. Crowley is silent behind him, but Aziraphale can feel the intensity of him, even in the dark.

"And through them I met Arthur, he was such a delight. Marvelous poet, really, but so raw, so wounded. I thought… I _realized_ , I could help him."

"Tell me what you did." Crowley repeats himself in a whisper against the back of Aziraphale's head. The warmth of the breath against his nape tells him Crowley is holding his mouth open, as if he might flick his tongue against the angel, tasting him. "Tell me."

"Well, we were friends, we read together and went to parties, once we took the train to Oxford for the day. And we went to bed, that was the best way to help him, when we were together like that, it was easiest for him to let me in." It comes out in a rush until the angel trails off awkwardly. He's not an idiot, he knows what Crowley wants. He wants to hear Aziraphale describe their touches, the first moments of hesitation and the final ones of ecstasy. He wants Aziraphale to tell him exactly what he's been doing the last decades with his _friends_ , so they can share it, here in the dark, on this small bed, on a huge ship, in the middle of the night, in the middle of the Atlantic, not touching each other.

Why prevaricate? Here is something he can give Crowley, that Crowley wants. They're already in a secret meeting, what does it matter what they discuss. He can give Crowley this, and they will have it together.

"The first time, we were in his flat, he had inherited quite a large one from his father's side." Aziraphale feels this will be better than describing the next time, which featured the sofa in the backroom of the bookshop that he suspects Crowley might feel proprietary about.

"I took the lead, it comes quite naturally to me as it happens, and of course they have so much at stake poor dears. I kissed him. It's very, very nice, kissing, I like it a lot. You can start to feel their feelings quite loudly, when you're kissing a human. He was afraid, but eager, I suppose I was too. I could feel he was aroused, his member was so hard in his trousers I could feel it poking into me."

There's a soft whuff of air as Crowley exhales into his hair. Aziraphale can feel him shift his hips on the bed behind him.

"Well, I'll admit it was hard to contain myself. I put my hands on it and he made the most delightful sounds, so I… I put him in my mouth."

"Where did you put your mouth?" Crowley whispers.

"I put it, well, I put his member in my mouth, I fellated him." Aziraphale swears he can hear Crowley's mouth curl in a smile at his hesitant language, even in the pitch dark.

"What did he taste like?"

"It was lovely. He tasted like sweat of course, like his fluids, a little salty, a little sour. It was hard to stop."

"But you did stop? Why did you stop? What did you do?" Crowley's soft questions have a slight urgency to them now. Aziraphale feels suspended between his memories of Arthur's room on that night twenty years ago, of his confident certainty as he moved his hands over the boy's body, and this night, the warmth of Crowley so vivid on the narrow bed, room for the Holy Spirit between them, just. He can feel his cock thickening in his trousers and his mouth filling with saliva, aware of Crowley's hips shifting behind him, again. He wonders if his friend is hard.

“Well, I stopped because I wanted to, do what I wanted to do. I quite like certain things I’ve found. And I could tell he wanted it too. I wanted to take care of him, to make him feel things, to let himself be truly open to love and to pleasure, and to me. So I asked him if I could enter him.”

Crowley’s exhalation is almost a groan. His hips shift further. “Then what did you do?”

“When he indicated that, yes, I was most welcome, I told him to take off all his clothes.”

“While you watched?”

“Well, yes I watched, we were making love, he was beautiful. And it was so dear to watch him overcome his shyness, to let go of his fear and strip down to nothing but that which his Creator gave him. I was quite overcome.”

“I imagine he was overcome as well?” Even Crowley’s teasing contains an edge of a moan, his hips moving again on the mattress.

“Well, rather, I overcame him. We were in the card room, or game room, and there was a billiard table. It’s quite soft, the felt, and the wood is carved in the roundest curves. When he was bent over it I could have him for a long time.”

“How did you prepare him? Were you gentle on the poor boy?”

“Of course I was gentle. Although in my experience it’s vital to be decisive, firm even, in these encounters. So they can feel safe. They open up the most, the most deliciously that way." Aziraphale, pauses, remembering the boy's complete submission, once he'd decided to trust the older man.

"There was some butter to hand that night as I recall. It’s a favourite of mine, it’s quite tasty so that’s handy, although I like it best in the winter, olive oil in summer.” He can feel the bed shake slightly as the demon laughs at his reliable gluttony.

“With my fingers it was so nice to pet him, he made the most wonderful sounds I remember. It was irresistible to go inside him, first with my hand and then I pressed my member into him, I remember how he tilted up to take it, I couldn’t possibly help myself. And then well, we were in _congress_ and I just, just wanted to help him, to make it good for him, so I started.”

“Started what?” Crowley is still now, for a moment.

“Well, healing him, I guess. I was still figuring out the best way to do it then, so I talked a lot to him, during.”

“Tell me what you told him.”

“That he was good, that he was whole, that he was unpolluted. That I loved him, that we loved each other and that was good, that it was good to feel so good, to feel some much pleasure together.”

“Tell me as you told it to him.” Crowley’s voice sounds far away, his breath shallow. His hips are moving again, rhythmically now. Aziraphale’s cock is so hard he can feel it pulse with his heartbeat.

“You are good, you’re whole, you’re free from any pollution. I love you, we love each other, it’s good, to feel good, to feel pleasure together.” Aziraphale whispers, tears standing in his eyes suddenly, as he moves his hand to the front of his trousers and presses the head of his cock into his stomach. 

He hears Crowley go over the edge, turn his head away from Aziraphale and sob his groans of pleasure into the pillow. The angel feels his cock pulse, the head wet with his fluid. His chest feels like it’s wide open sky, like his body is still but his heart is plummeting from the top of the tower. He’s so aware of Crowley’s body next to his that he can see him when he closes his eyes, could reach out and touch any individual hair on his arm, find a freckle on his cheek with a single motion.

Moments go by. Crowley is still, his breathing quieting. There’s a quick shimmer that tells Aziraphale that the demon has used his power to clean himself. The angel feels a pang, longing to taste his friend, to bury his face in his spend-sticky belly, to lick him clean. They lay side by side on the small bed.

“What about you? How did you take your pleasure?” Crowley’s voice is even again, clear. He’s turned his head back to Aziraphale, and reached his arm across the angel’s head to grasp the iron bedstead. He’s so close, practically cradling Aziraphale under his arm. The angel can smell him, is surrounded by the earthy, spicy, _Crowley_ smell of him.

“Well, I suppose I hoped that I could do some good as I did. I don’t know if I did, really. If it was enough.”

“It was enough. You took what you wanted, but he wanted to give it to you. You made him feel so good when you were inside him. Did you wrap your hand around his cock, did you make him come around you?”

“Yes… yes, I did.”

“And it made you come? Him moaning and jerking and clutching his sheath so tightly around you? Made you fill him up with your spend, push all the way in and spill it deep inside him?”

Aziraphale hand is around his cock, he’s helpless under Crowley’s voice. “Yes, yes, I did, I did.” His pleasure is peaking, he can feel his bollocks contracting, his breath is short gasps, he’s leaning off the railing at the top of the tower, he’s going to tip...

“It’s alright, it’s alright you took your pleasure in him and he gave it to you. Take what you need, take what you need angel, take it, take it..” And Aziraphale’s release is upon him, his mouth opens in a silent cry and he shoots over his hand, stroking himself until he can’t bear it anymore, and he miracles away the wetness and tucks his softening penis back into his trousers.

Crowley hasn’t moved, their faces so close together they can feel each other’s breath. As soon as Aziraphale is flaccid and buttoned, Crowley drops the arm that has been above Aziraphale’s head, bringing his hand onto the angel’s chest, seemingly without hesitation. He shuffles on the bed, bringing his head under Aziraphale’s, tucking himself onto the pillow, against the angel’s body.

“Let’s turn in shall we? Next time we’ll go to mine, I’m in first class, and you can have a bath if you like.”

Aziraphale stares into the darkness, his torso tingling everywhere the demon is pressed against him. Is that infernal creature already asleep? There’s nothing for it, he’ll lie here in the dark all night, feeling his friend’s weight heavy and trusting against him. A little while before dawn, he realizes that Crowley can get him into the first class dining on the upper decks, and some of his confusion and frustration is lifted, as he contemplates having a satisfying breakfast for the first time in weeks. And right now he is on this boat, in this bed, with Crowley. And perhaps this bed and this boat can be some third place, for a moment.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Boundless [art]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24616519) by [Tyrograph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyrograph/pseuds/Tyrograph)




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